Playing Taps and Doubting God

Today’s guest post comes from Jennifer Lee.

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I was a freshman in high school, standing with my head bowed behind the cemetery shed, where the maintenance guys stored the lawnmower. It was noon on a late-winter day, and I waited for my cue, a military gun salute.

I leaned against the weather-beaten wooden planks – hard and cold like my waning faith – while holding a silver trumpet. The family huddled against the wind on velvet-covered folding chairs, under a blue tarp, while the preacher read from a pocket-sized book of last rites.

The uniformed veterans lifted their guns, clicked and fired. Clicked and fired. Clicked and fired.

And I — the lone bugler — stepped from the behind the shed. I lifted the trumpet to my lips to play “Taps” in honor of the middle-aged man in the steel box.

The notes rang out, mingling with pained and muffled cries. And I felt hollow on the inside.

Fourteen years old, and already I didn’t believe there was life beyond the grave. Not for me, or the man in the coffin, or for the hundreds of other sons and daughters already buried here in my hometown cemetery in Iowa — with names like Anderson and Benson and Larson. These were the people I saw in the pews of my church on Sunday mornings. Hear me now: I wanted to believe that there was something More in the great beyond. But it all seemed so … fairy-tale-ish. So foolish.

“Taps,” a song that means “lights out,” was the melodic and literal end of all things. That’s how I saw it anyhow.

Death always exposed my doubt. And from a young age, it came around frequently, like a specter haunting our little Iowa town, robbing me of my favorite people.

When townfolk died, Mom would walk us down the block to the old Sliefert funeral chapel, where our old friends were laid out in velvet-lined boxes. I peered over the edges of their caskets, and when I thought no one was looking, I would reach a hand in to feel the waxy coldness of death. I had once heard that a dead body could actually make a jerking motion, or that its eyes might suddenly fly open, so I’d watch like a tiny hawk, waiting for some macabre spectacle to unfold before me.

Death both repelled and attracted me – the same way I felt when watching horror movies the week before Halloween.

On summer days, my little brother and I would visit the cemetery after the diggers finished making a gaping hole in the earth — before the mourners showed up. Curiosity drew us, and we’d lay on our stomachs giggling nervously as we looked into six-feet-deep holes – dirty holes that swallowed up bodies and precious parts of my faith.

As I grew older, the funeral home director started asking if I’d play “Taps” at the ceremonies of war heroes. The school principal always let me go. He thought it was a “good community service.” But sometimes, I wished he wouldn’t. Sometimes, I’d rather have done algebra, instead of graveside service.

In the cemetery, there was no escaping my own inevitable death. Or my own suffocating doubt.

I played the song — time after time — and it felt like these were the last bitter notes on the end of life.

Casket closed. Book closed.

But right there in the pain of doubt — at the edge of opened graves – I took important first steps in my discovery of life and death and faith in God. I realized that doubt can actually be a gift. No kidding, a GIFT.

It would be years and years later, but I began to ask questions that, ultimately, led to a few important answers.

Here’s the deal: I was a modern-day Thomas. I doubted the very existence of God for much of my life — despite the fact that I grew up among believers, many of whom I led home with a silver trumpet. If there really was a God, I was sure my doubts would doom me.

So I found sweet relief, I tell you, when I found these words in the study notes of my Bible: “Silent doubts rarely find answers.”

That meant it was OK to ask, to doubt, to fumble around for a few answers. It meant that my doubts were not a curse, but a step toward a God who invites us to get close enough to touch a Savior’s scars. He doesn’t turn His back on modern-day Thomases, but invites us closer.

And doubt? Well, it isn’t meant to be a place of permanent residence. Not for me, anyway. For me, it was the place from which I could grow, stepping out from behind the weather-worn shack to play a different song.

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About the author: Jennifer is a former news reporter who is passionate about sharing the Good News through story.

Hi Shelly… Thanks for dropping by. I look back on those years, and think how painful it was to stuff all those doubts somewhere deep, hoping no one would see. I feared that doubt would condemn me — not only in the eyes of God, but in the eyes of people. For me, doubt was the first notes of a better song that would come, much later.

I write about doubt often, in hopes that it will encourage others to share more openly about their own fears. Doubt should not be a burden carried along, and my prayer has been that the church would be more welcome to such conversations.

Hi Shelly… Thanks for dropping by. I look back on those years, and think how painful it was to stuff all those doubts somewhere deep, hoping no one would see. I feared that doubt would condemn me — not only in the eyes of God, but in the eyes of people. For me, doubt was the first notes of a better song that would come, much later.

I write about doubt often, in hopes that it will encourage others to share more openly about their own fears. Doubt should not be a burden carried along, and my prayer has been that the church would be more welcome to such conversations.

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Caleb

Jennifer, thanks for the great story. I grew up in a pastor’s home and thus was a frequent visitor at many funerals. I’ve always been grateful for the experiences that allowed me to understand the significance of death at an early age and also gave me to opportunity to struggle through my own faith journey.

Hi Caleb … I was at a spiritual retreat at Laity Lodge in Texas this weekend, and had a conversation with a musician there about how important it is for children to have these kinds of experiences — even if it seemed scary to us at the time. So much of our culture is segregated by age now, you know? So many people of our generation live in neighborhoods with others the same age, go to church with other 30-and-40-somethings, then send their kiddos off to children’s church. That’s not all bad. But I wonder how much we are missing out on inter-generational connections … and how we are denying our children an up-close look at the fact that life ends in death?

We spend a lot of time in nursing homes, and we worship with a lot of older folks in our country church in Iowa. So my children, ages 10 and 8, are already learning about old age and dying. I’m not saying we’re doing everything right here, but I think there’s something important to be gained when a child has this sort of exposure. … So glad you’ve joined the discussion, Caleb.

Oh my word, friend. Your words shine here like a silver trumpet. To doubt is to discover–a truth to hang on to. Did I ever tell you my husband’s uncle was a funeral director? My husband worked for him for a season, slept in the funeral home, went on ambulance runs. He has stories…

So grateful that you’re here with me at Caleb’s place, Sandra. I didn’t realize that your husband’s uncle was a funeral director. Yes, I would imagine he would have a few stories. My brother John is a casket salesman… Stick around Caleb’s place for a while. He tells some great stories here. He’s a fantastic writer, too.

Me, too, Ro. Me, too. Very glad for the cross-paved path, and the gentle guidance to walk that one road.

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Casey

What a beautiful and powerful post, Jennifer. I can understand your trepidation at being allowed to go and play ‘Taps’ at these services, Thank you for sharing your thoughts on this, and also on doubt..,One way or another, he and I have become close friends just lately. Thank you also, Caleb, for inviting Jennifer to share her story.

Good with God! I think you as well my sisiter of me! The LORD directs our steps, so why try to understand everything along the way.

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judith maurice

Good with God! I think you as well my sisiter of me! The LORD directs our steps, so why try to understand everything along the way.

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bfield3

Beautiful story Jennifer. I’m 50 years old and gave myself to the Lord less than two years ago. Prior to that I was truly a grumpy atheist 🙂 Starting to doubt myself, asking questions and eventually searching for answers led me on a path to the Lord. The change in my life has been incredible. Never have I been more secure, forgiving and just plain happy as I am now. God showed me the way and I followed.

Reading your story brought back memories of my own struggle and eventual freedom from the oppression and gloom of atheism that so caused me pain. A struggle that I like to recall. My hope now is that I can change the lives of others the same way mine was changed.

Thanks for being here, Bill. A grumpy atheist. Yeah. I can relate. I wouldn’t have said it twenty years ago, but I can say it now: Doubts can really be a gift, when they lead us into a place of deeper study and reflection.